


Works in Progress

by panharmonium



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 08:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2685443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panharmonium/pseuds/panharmonium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Padawan Anakin Skywalker is a work in progress.  But then, so is his master.  Various unconnected snippets set during the apprenticeship of Anakin Skywalker, updated whenever inspiration strikes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Gambling Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan carries on a fine tradition; Anakin is less than enthused.

Anakin, panting with the glorious exertion of a duel heartily and decisively concluded, can hardly contain his glee as Ferus Olin deactivates his saber, bows, and offers Anakin a friendly handshake in defeat, before he crosses the burn-etched floor in a beeline for the showers. 

_Serves you right, you uppity, self-righteous, know-it-all peedunkey._

Though it probably would be easier to resent him if he weren’t so damned _gracious_ about everything, losing included.

Trotting out of the practice ring toward the small knot of observing Masters, Anakin sees a scowling Siri Tachi slap something down into Obi-Wan’s hand before striding out the door in a flourish of robes, presumably to wait for her defeated Padawan.  Obi-Wan, at Anakin’s approach, slips the unidentified bundle into his cloak, looking a touch more self-satisfied than usual.

“What is that, master?” Anakin asks, drawing up alongside him.

Obi-Wan claps a light hand onto his shoulder, turning them both toward the exit from the salles.  “A free dinner for me – and you, if you behave.”  They saunter toward the door, Anakin easily keeping pace with his mentor, whose height he has already begun to outstrip.

“It’s always a free dinner in the refectory, master.”

“So it is,” Obi-Wan says agreeably.  “I am thinking that perhaps this evening we shall venture out into the wider world.”  He withdraws a hand from his robes and flashes a sizeable credit chit at Anakin.

Remembering the surreptitious exchange he had witnessed not a moment ago between Obi-Wan and Siri, Anakin narrows his eyes, suddenly suspicious.  “You - did you place a _bet_ on me?” he exclaims.

“The more appropriate question, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, pitching his voice slightly louder as they pass Master Tachi, “is why a fellow Jedi Master, especially one of such _infinite_ wisdom, would agree to such an obviously ill-advised wager.” Siri glares daggers at him, but Obi-Wan’s expression remains nonchalant.  “Though I suppose it would be bad form to bet against one’s own apprentice.”

Anakin has not quite gotten past the indignity of the original revelation.  “You _bet_ _on me_?”

“I expressed confidence in your abilities and was challenged. I didn’t think you would want your honor impugned.”

“Master!  I earned you 20 dataries?”

“Today, yes.”

“Toda - what do you mean, today; how much have you made off me?”

Obi-Wan is dangerous when he’s in this good of a mood.  He waves away Anakin’s scandalized tone with a good-natured, _almost_ imperceptible roll of the eyes.  “Oh, my unbearably naïve apprentice.  As if I never made a datarie for any of my instructors.”

“Master Qui-Gon didn’t _bet_ on you,” Anakin huffs, his offended indignation on behalf of his beloved childhood idol almost endearing.

“Why on earth should you think that?  He bet on _you_.”

Anakin’s mouth drops open a half inch. 

"Let’s go,” Obi-Wan says breezily, as if nothing had transpired.  “I’ve winnings to spend.”

Anakin, recovering from his momentary stunned state, jogs to catch up with him.  “I’m going to need to see some proof,” he demands. 

Obi-Wan shrugs without slowing.  “I have none.  I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it.”

Anakin opens his mouth to retort, but Obi-Wan holds up a finger, forestalling further argument.

"Some truths can only be perceived, not proven, young one.  The crux of the matter here is, are you able, _in this moment_ , to disregard your dinted pride and take advantage of a sudden windfall – ” he waves the credits at Anakin, “ – or will you allow the stubborn desire to stew in past offenses committed against your person to condemn you to the unenviable fate of fenti beans and, stars forbid, _white_ milk tonight?”

Anakin’s rueful, acquiescing smile is slow, as if it is being dragged out of him on a chain, but it is there. 

“Better,” Obi-Wan says.  “Now come.  It’s nearly evening meal, and we’re not going anywhere until you’ve cleaned up.”

“Yes, master.”  He trots alongside Obi-Wan obediently as they approach the lift to the residential sector.  “Master?”

“Mm.”

He can’t help it.  “How much money did you make on me, though?”

Obi-Wan’s smile is appropriately refrained, Jedi-constrained, but Anakin can feel the Force leaping around him in a positively _wicked_ dance.  “Enough to keep you in blue milk for the rest of your apprenticeship, I think.”

As if Ferus needs another reason to dislike him.  Anakin suppresses a groan, knowing such a visible disturbance would earn him looks of disapprobation from the serene Jedi traversing the corridor on either side of them.   Stepping into the lift behind Obi-Wan, he wheels on his master.

“How much on _you_?”

Obi-Wan shrugs, deftly sidestepping the question.  “I’ve no idea.”

The lift shoots upward, carrying them towards the dormitories.  Anakin scrutinizes the white lift wall in front of him.  “It was a lot,” he declares finally.

Obi-Wan’s gaze slides over to him, brows raised.  “Can you prove it?”

“I _perceive_ it,” Anakin quips back.

Obi-Wan actually smirks.  It’s quick, blink-and-you-miss-it, but unmistakable for someone as accustomed to reading him as his apprentice is. 

Said apprentice rocks back on his heels, pleased despite the sweaty mess that is his tunic and the rankling indignity of being bet upon by foolish Jedi masters with little else to occupy their time.  He loves Obi-Wan in these moods.  Already anticipating a happy retort, he pushes, needling, at his master’s irreverent good humor.  “So I can expect to find blue milk in the conservator tomorrow, right?”

The lift doors slide open, smoothly, and Obi-Wan gives Anakin a firm push out into the hall.  “Hope springs eternal, Padawan.”


	2. At Your Own Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anakin is definitely ready for a training saber. According, that is, to Anakin. After a less-than-stellar session in the dojo, Obi-Wan undertakes the unenviable task of educating a nine-year old child on the importance of readiness.

Anakin is taking an infernally long time to select a bokken.  
  
 _They are all the **same**_ , Obi-Wan thinks, stymied, and then realizes that maybe he almost wants to chuckle at his apprentice’s long hesitation.  There truly can be no accounting for the workings of a child’s mind.  
  
“I would like you to show me the kata you and the other initiates have been working on with Master Drallig,” Obi-Wan prompts.  “I spoke to him yesterday – he was pleased with your performance in class last week.”  
  
Normally such praise would leave Anakin happier than a sabacc player with a new skifter, but today Anakin doesn’t even appear to have heard the compliment, standing shiftily as he is in front of the racks of polished wooden practice swords.  Obi-Wan frowns inwardly and addresses his apprentice.  “Is something amiss?”  
  
Anakin jumps a little.  “No, master,” he blurts, and hastily grabs a bokken from the rack.  
  
But all is clearly not well with the very young Padawan.  Obi-Wan can sense fine whiptails of distraction and unease trailing behind his apprentice’s rough motions, and even if Obi-Wan were not Force-sensitive, the imprecision with which Anakin is performing a kata he ought to know well would be enough to give Obi-Wan cause for concern.    
  
He crosses his arms over his chest, attempting to discern a reason for the boy’s unusual struggle.  Anakin’s eyes seem drawn by a strange magnetism to the door, as though he is expecting an observer, or dreading the same, and the lack of focus shows in his footwork.  After some stretch of minutes, when Anakin overreaches yet another step, Obi-Wan stirs.  There is no benefit to continuing the exercise this way – with such an unrooted stance, any opponent would be able to knock Anakin off his feet with an orokeet feather.  “Padawan,” Obi-Wan calls firmly.  “Stop.”  
  
Anakin stumbles a little.  Privately, Obi-Wan thinks it is a wonder he doesn’t fall flat on his face, the way he has been simultaneously attempting to both watch his feet and crane his neck towards the door.  Trying and failing to disguise a scowl, Anakin lets the practice sword fall to his side, shoulders slumping. 

“Tell me what is on your mind.”  Obi-Wan says.  His tone, though characteristically moderate, leaves no room for refusal.  
  
Anakin drags the tip of the bokken across the floor, hedging for time.  His fingers are tight about the wooden saber’s polished hilt.  
  
“Padawan.”  
  
Anakin straightens automatically at the incontrovertible authority in Obi-Wan’s voice, but his expression speaks to a wealth of reluctance.  “Master…” he says.  “I just…do we have to use the bokken?”  He gestures at the wooden practice sword with poorly concealed distaste.  
  
Obi-Wan keeps his expression carefully neutral, giving his Padawan a searching look.  Here was something new.  “What would you propose we use instead?”  
  
Anakin says nothing out loud, but he is not quite quick enough to stop his gaze lingering over the rack of true training sabers against the far wall.  At the sight of Obi-Wan’s raised eyebrows, Anakin flushes.  “All the other initiates my age are already using them.”  
   
 _Ah._   “And?”  Obi-Wan asks.  “Why should their progress disturb you?”  
  
“I’m not _disturbed_ ,” Anakin protests.  “It’s just – ”  He stops, his inborn honesty clearly warring with the prudence a few months’ residence in the Temple had begun to teach him.  
  
“You may speak freely, Padawan,” Obi-Wan grants.  Custody of the tongue could wait until Obi-Wan had learned his way around the convoluted twists and turns of Anakin’s mind a little better.  
  
“It’s just – bokken are for _babies_ ,” Anakin says helplessly.  “It’s _embarrassing_.  I don’t like using them.  The other initiates look at me like – it makes me feel like I don’t know anything, master.”  
  
Obi-Wan regards him gently.  “And do you know so much, Padawan, that you can truly dispute that point?”  
  
Anakin’s eyes widen in surprise, a shot of betrayal lancing through the Force.  Obi-Wan feels a twinge of sympathy, but gives no outward sign.  He knows full well Anakin had not been expecting such a correction from him, of all people, even when it had been delivered in such mild tones, _but_ , he reminds himself, _this is the Way_.  Obi-Wan had received plenty of this sort of instruction himself, and so too would Anakin.  _This is how we grow._  
  
“Let us discuss this,” Obi-Wan says calmly.  He casts about the room, then, lighting on a smooth patch of wall beside the rack of training sabers, he points.  “Stand over there, Padawan.”  
  
Anakin looks dubious, the Force around him still churning with hurt feelings, but he goes.    
  
“On your hands, Padawan,” Obi-Wan clarifies.  
  
Anakin stares at him as if he has uttered the most bantha-brained command in history, but obligingly tips himself upside down onto his palms, boot soles bumping up against the wall slightly.  
  
“Master?”  
  
The student’s body suitably distracted, Obi-Wan makes a play for the more important realm of the mind.  “Good.  Now.  How many months have passed since you joined us here at the Temple?”  
  
Anakin’s stubby braid dangles down from behind his ear, brushing against his cheek.  “Three?”  
  
“Is that a question?”

 “No, master.  Three.”  
  
“And how much would you say you have learned in that span of time?”  
  
Anakin’s arms wobble with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.  “Loads, master!  Tons of stuff!”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Four _shii-cho_ velocities, and moving pebbles around, and – and meditation, and how to use the airbuses, and _swimming_ , and…reading the Aurebesh, too, I guess – ”  
  
“And how would you evaluate your progress?”  
  
Anakin scrunches up his face in thought for a while.  “Good…I think it’s good, master.  I couldn’t do any of that stuff when I got here.”  
  
“I agree.  And yet we are meant to progress not only in ability, but in _understanding_.  So let us move closer to comprehension.”  He pauses for a moment.  “How long has Master Yoda been here with us, do you think?”    
  
That surprises a grin out of Anakin.  “Forever!” he laughs.  “I don’t know, master – he’s really old, isn’t he?”  
  
Obi-Wan allows himself a slight smile of his own.  “Nearly nine hundred.”  He paces a calm half-circle about Anakin’s periphery.  “Now.  Would it be right if, say, Master Muln were to criticize me because I cannot yet do what Master Yoda can do?”  
  
Anakin is already pink with the prolonged effort of being upside down – the handstand is a new, unpolished skill, but one he had attacked with characteristic enthusiasm – and the boy flushes further with indignation at the imagined insult to his master.  “Master!” he exclaims.  “No way!”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because.  It’s not fair.  Master Yoda got more time.”  
  
“And is it then right for us to look down on you because you cannot yet do what your classmates can do?  They too have nearly a decade’s experience on you.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Come down from there,” Obi-Wan commands.  Anakin folds awkwardly back to his feet, and Obi-Wan crouches down in front of him, the better to meet him at eye level.  “Look at me.”    
  
Anakin does.  Obi-Wan holds up a finger.  “Humility first,” he says quietly.  “Feeling like you know nothing is not, as you seem to believe, an unfair burden placed upon you by the glances and gossip of others.  At this stage in your training, it is an accurate observation of reality.  You do have much to learn, Padawan.”    
  
Anakin, a heated embarrassment crawling up from the collar of his tunics and coloring his face, wrenches his gaze away to stare determinedly at the floorboards.  Obi-Wan places a finger under his chin and lifts the boy’s face back up to meet his eyes again.  “Second,” he says more gently, “compassion.  For oneself as well as for others.  Willful ignorance is a flaw, but it is not any flaw of yours.  You are a student.  You are _meant_ to know nothing.”  He brushes at their nascent bond in the Force, infusing it with a splash of warm humor.  “I myself know only _next_ to nothing, which is apparently just _something_ enough to allow me the privilege of teaching you.”

Anakin tries to smile.  “And Master Yoda?”  
  
Obi-Wan regards him gravely.  “Even Master Yoda would say that next to the Force’s infinite mysteries, his knowledge is as a child’s.”  
  
Anakin seems to struggle with this idea for a moment, then, finally, nods.  Obi-Wan holds his gaze.  “You see comparisons where there are none to be made.  I hold you up against only your past and future selves, not the accomplishments of others.”  
  
Anakin lowers his eyes again, this time not in embarrassment, but contemplation.  “I understand, master,” he says soberly.  “I just thought – well.”  He waves a hand in the direction of the rack of training sabers against the wall.  “I already know how to use all kinds of tools, from working at Watto’s shop.  Dangerous ones and everything.  I thought maybe it would be okay.”  
  
“Ah.”  So there is another lesson to be delivered today.  Obi-Wan pushes himself to his feet and steps back from Anakin, who moves as if to follow him, but Obi-Wan shakes his head.  “Stay there.”  
  
His lightsaber snaps to life in his hand, not one of the rack-stacked training sabers Anakin so covets, but the one that hangs at his own side, its solid weight reassuring against his hip, a constant companion.  He sweeps it in a slow arc across his body, the Force stilling into sudden clarity, smoothing into the peace that always comes to him the moment his fingers curl around this perfect instrument, self and body distilled down to a single note, trappings of the outer world seeming to fall away into obscurity, into a place where everything is Light.  A power greater than his flows through his veins, warms his limbs.  
  
“A lightsaber is not a tool.”  His voice echoes in the near-empty dojo.  He makes an experimental circle with the blade, spinning it about his wrist in a loop close to his side, once, twice, three times. “A _Jedi_ is a tool, of the Force.  The saber is an extension of yourself.  You do not use it.  The Forces uses you, and through you, your blade.”    
  
With Anakin so omnipresent and needful, he has had precious little time to practice on his own, to grow accustomed to the changes that have marked his weapon of choice as surely as they have marked his life.  Small disturbances break the surface of his trance-like stillness, sending out unsettling ripples.  The heft, just this side of too heavy, the hilt, fashioned for hands larger than his.  He allows that discomfort to exist, float to the surface, hang there for a moment, be acknowledged. And then dissolve, released.  It is not the end of everything.  He will learn.  He always does.  
  
He brings the blade forward, across his body, level with Anakin’s gaze.  The boy has, consummately obedient to Obi-Wan’s directive, not moved so much as an inch, but his eyes are round, fiercely attentive, the green light playing over his features making him look like he is glowing, lit from within.  “The saber is a symbol of your oath, and a marker of your service.  It is meant to be wielded only in the defense of life, but make no mistake – ” He lowers the tip of the saber to the already scarred and pitted dojo floor, and though the blade is locked onto its lowest power setting, there is a hiss and a flurry of sparks.  “It can kill you if you are not careful.”  
  
Obi-Wan deactivates the saber, dojo falling abruptly back into a much duller cast.  “With a bokken, at the very least there is no danger of decapitation.  Imagine my chagrin should my own apprentice lose his head because his foolish master allowed him to overreach his abilities.”  Obi-Wan hopes the dry humor is not lost on Anakin, who is still watching, transfixed.    
  
He holds up the saber hilt, briefly.  “You will touch one when you are ready.”  Clipping the saber back onto his belt, he sidles back over to Anakin.  “And _that_ ,” he says, giving the child a little shake of the shoulder, “is quite enough to absorb for today.  Come.  We will meditate on it.”  
  
Anakin blinks, shakes himself, and trots after him.  “Master?  Who decides when I’m ready?”  
  
From any other Padawan, such would be an inexcusably impertinent question, but Anakin’s curiosity is genuine.  Obi-Wan suppresses another recurring flicker of panic at the staggering number of things Anakin does not know, reminding himself – with dubious success – to stay in the moment.  In the future there would be questions – hundreds of questions, thousands of them, many of which he might possibly find himself unable to answer – but in _this_ moment, there is only a single query, one he _is_ well-equipped to respond to.  “I do,” he says, and with that there is a reaffirmation of responsibility, of still-burgeoning confidence.  _I do._    
  
“And I’m not ready now.”  
  
“Not even by the most convoluted stretch of the imagination, Anakin.”  
  
They pass through the dojo doors, Anakin appearing to mull it over.  At the end of the corridor, Obi-Wan allows Anakin to call the lift, surreptitiously checking to make sure he has remembered the correct floor.  There had been more than a few lost-Padawan episodes during their first few months together, though such occasions had now become mercifully few and far between.  _The boy is learning._  
  
As the lift approaches, Anakin gives a forceful tug on Obi-Wan’s sleeve, looking up at him with an uncharacteristically mischievous glance. “Master?” he says.  “How about _now_?”    
  
“Curb your cheek, Padawan,” Obi-Wan remonstrates.  But the corners of his mouth twitch upwards regardless, and the two of them board the lift in a comfortable accord, both secure in the knowledge that they are, at the very least, _ready_ for whatever the next moment may hold.


End file.
